problem caused
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: Even in college, Hiyori has not given up her ties to the Far Shore. Still, her schedule as a full-time medical student prevents her from spending much time with anyone outside of her lectures and lab rooms. That is, until someone shows up. (Unexpectedly. In the middle of the university. On top of the lab assistant.)


Hiyori splashes water from the sink onto her face, squeaking as the icy drops roll down her neck. During times like these, she misses Kofuku's kotatsu and the endless supply of hot oden. It's more than her tiny, freezing apartment, that she shares with her two equally freezing roommates, could ever boast.

Ami pokes her head in the bathroom door.

"It's snowing out there," she warns.

The wind is a living creature. It gnaws through the fabric of Hiyori's clothes down to her bitten fingertips. The university building is cold, despite its central heating and thick walls. She shivers through the first lecture with her coat still draped over her shoulders, and miserably exchanges it for a lab coat outside the sterile room.

"Where are you headed after this, Iki-san?"

Hiyori jumps at the interruption, holding her gloved hands gingerly away from her body as she looks over her shoulder at the speaker. It's Hirota Asahi—a boy she's probably spoken to four times, and thought of even less. He's standing one table away from her with his hands covered in something dark and viscous that clashes furiously with his smiling face.

"I'm going home to study," she replies, offering a faint smile of her own.

"You walk home alone?"

"I usually take a bus."

Hiyori turns back to her cadaver.

"Oh, which bus?" Hirota asks, cheerfully oblivious.

Hiyori sighs, but before Hirota can bother her more, she hears her name called from the other end of the lab. Under her breath, she blesses the lab tech for the rescue.

Hiyori peels off her gloves on the way over to the end of the long room. The lab tech is on her cell phone, but presses her hand over the mouthpiece when Hiyori arrives.

"Iki-san," she says. "You _know_ your friends aren't supposed to ask for you during lab hours."

Hiyori stares, waiting for the statement to resolve itself into a joke. The lab tech just gives her an annoyed glare.

"W-what?" Hiyori finally sputters.

"There's someone on the phone with me right now, asking about you."

Hiyori swallows, certain that this is a mistake. None of her friends would be stupid enough to bother her during classes.

Yato materializes in the thin air right next to the lab tech.

"Hi there, Hiyori!" he announces. "Nice coat!"

The lab tech hisses like a startled cat, stumbles away from Yato, and promptly trips over a plastic bin. Screams follow them out of the lab room as Hiyori sprints out, yanking her visitor along behind her. She hauls him into the sterile hallway and kicks the door shut behind them.

"Yato!" She scream-whispers, roughly collaring him with his fluffy-fluff. "Why are you—? What are you _doing_ here?!"

"I thought I'd just—drop by, you know—?" Yato wheezes, his face turning a pretty shade of lavender as Hiyori continues to cut off his air.

She reluctantly drops her stranglehold, and he takes a few steps away from her. Hiyori shivers at the loss of his immediate body heat. It's much colder here in the hallway than it was in the lab.

"You could have done that when I _wasn't_ in class," she says. "You could also have just walked in!"

She enunciates the last two words very carefully, the memory of Yato apparating in front of all her classmates still very fresh. Her voice—icier even than the hallway they stand in—cuts through his excitement. Yato wilts.

"I still don't know where you liiive," he whines.

Hiyori sucks in her retort, suddenly remembering that neither he nor Yukine have actually been to her apartment since she moved in with Yama and Ami.

"Oh," she says instead.

Yato resumes his carefree smile and fixes the damage to his fluffy-fluff.

"I thought I'd just come to your school and ask around instead. Problem solved!"

Hiyori mentally flashes back to the lab tech's reaction to Yato's hair-raising appearance in the lab. _Problem caused._

"After all, I do have to check in on my worshipers," Yato says, still fastidiously arranging his fluffy-fluff.

"Worship _er_ ," Hiyori corrects. She's still stinging from embarrassment—even though it's more than likely her classmates have already forgotten Yato's appearance.

Yato just snorts.

"For _now_. Anyway, I wanted to see how things are going with you."

"Well, they _were_ going pretty well," Hiyori says, bristling.

"Really?" Yato's shoulders sink. "So you weren't just wishing for someone to come rescue you?"

"Of course n—" Hiyori cuts herself off mid-word. Her one-sided conversation with Hirota…the phone call to the lab tech…her mysterious salvation.

She _had_ needed to be rescued.

"I would have just called you directly," Yato says, scratching his neck. "But you always turn your phone off when you're in school these days."

Hiyori keeps floundering for a few seconds, leaving time for Yato to gaze around in fascination.

"So this is where you go to school every day?" he asks, awestruck. Hiyori follows his gaze, not seeing anything particularly wondrous about their surroundings.

"Your school's bigger than Bishamon's house!"

He cranes his neck to look up into the soaring, frosty rafters, where nothing lurks but shadow and dust—along with a few ayakashi. Hiyori can confirm that the stress of the university lifestyle has given birth to more than a few of the bulbous-eyed phantoms roaming these halls.

"You should hire me to clean this place up, Hiyori," Yato suggests, scooping the ubiquitous yen bottle out of his jacket and shaking it enticingly. "Then Yukine and I could see you sometimes."

There's no bitterness in his voice, but Hiyori hears the thread of melancholy undergirding his words.

"Okay, I'll hire you—" she says slowly.

Yato's eyes light up with the special sort of warmth Hiyori thinks he saves just to give her a heart attack. She soldiers on:

"— _as long as_ you promise to leave me alone when I'm in class! No more popping out of thin air in front of the lab tech?"

He nods enthusiastically, then suddenly throws his arms around her neck, burying his messy head in her shoulder. Hiyori squeaks.

"I'll do a good job Hiyori!"

His nose nuzzles into her neck. She would try harder to shove him off her—but he's just so _warm_. She gives an exaggerated sigh, but sabotages herself by accidentally filling her nose with his scent. Her face is on fire. _Problem caused._

"Yato, can you…watch the sweat, please? This coat is actually not mine."

He reluctantly untangles himself from around her, which makes them both shiver.

Hiyori chews on her words for a few moments. She wants to phrase a question that doesn't make it obvious she's more-or-less left both Yato and Yukine high and dry for the last couple weeks. She finally settles on:

"Yukine couldn't make it here with you?"

Yato blinks, then suddenly snaps both hands in realization.

"Of course! I knew I was forgetting something!"

Hiyori's mouth slides into an exasperated frown.

"I _knew_ you would accidentally leave him at a gas station one of these days."

Yato's lips part in bewilderment, then he shakes his head aggressively.

"No, no no no! Not that! I meant Yukine was too busy to come, so I came here solo."

"He's too busy?" she asks in curiosity.

"Yep!" Yato grins, and his eyes crinkle up around the edges. "He's off helping Kazuma get ready for the big party."

Hiyori briefly racks her brain for any festivals or holidays that are approaching, and comes up dry.

"Party…?"

Yato waves a hand disinterestedly.

"Another of the skank's branch shrines got built," he says, like it happens every day.

Hiyori's eyes widen. Even for a god as important as Bishamon, a new shrine is good cause for celebration.

"That's amazing!" she says.

"Yeah, yeah." Yato yawns. "But, more importantly, free booze!"

Hiyori casts a rebuking glare at him.

"I hope you don't plan to get drunk when you have Yukine to take care of."

"I mean—free food!"

He stands up straight, running a restless hand through his hair. Hiyori has to study him for a moment before she realizes—he seems nervous.

 _Yato, nervous?_

"It's tomorrow night," he says. His hair sticks up wildly between his fingers. "Will you be able to come?"

He looks at her for a few seconds. Despite his fidgeting, there's something patient and yearning in his eyes that makes Hiyori's stomach warm and quivery.

She sighs. It would be so nice if she _could_ go.

"I have a late class tomorrow, Yato," she says sadly. "I'm sorry."

He lets go of his hair, letting his arm swing limply back to his side. At once, he manages to slap a cheeky grin back across his face.

"That's okay, Hiyori!"

She swallows. "I really wish I could come—"

"Shush!"

Yato quickly presses his index finger against her lips, and again, Hiyori squeaks. Her eyes cross to stare down her own nose at the tip of his finger.

"I would be a terrible god of fortune," he says quietly, "if I told my followers to skip class in order to go to a party."

Before Hiyori can blink, Yato is across the hallway and balancing on the narrow windowsill. The morning sunlight pours all white around his silhouette. She has to shade her eyes to look at him.

"I'll see you soon!" he calls to her, before disappearing over the ledge into the cold.

Hiyori stares at the empty window for a moment longer, her mouth hanging slightly open. She presses a hand uncomprehendingly to her own mouth.

In a panic, she remembers the lab she's supposed to be finishing. She hurries back inside, avoiding a pointed glare from the frazzled lab tech.

"What was that all about?" Hirota asks as soon as she returns to her table.

"I'm…not sure," Hiyori murmurs.

: : :

Class goes late the following day. When Hiyori walks out the university gate, she is immediately beset by the cruel wind and her own loudly growling stomach.

Her phone chirps. It's from Yama.

 _Yama A: can u pick up something hot? Think I broke the microwave._

Hiyori sighs, and types back:

 _Hiyo I: You shouldn't put plastic or metal in it. I thought an engineering student would KNOW that._

Yama's reply is instant.

 _Yama A: I didn't do that! I just cooked something fun and now the whole place smells like microwaved socks._

Hiyori groans. Yama has developed an unfortunate and odorous habit of culinary experimentation, and as a result their tiny shared kitchen has suffered heavy casualties.

 _Hiyo I: I guess we'll go somewhere else for dinner._

Yama's next text is full of typos, so Hiyori suspects she's typing one-handed while holding her nose shut with the other.

 _Yama A: I'm juist gonna opn all the windows adn run for it. later!_

Hiyori stops short, profoundly unenthused at the prospect of returning to a freezing apartment that smells of microwaved footwear.

"Yama…" she growls. Ami must be out at the moment, since Hiyori usually trusts her to nip Yama's experimentation in the bud before it reaches its boiling point.

A ten-minute bus ride brings her to the apartment building, and she reluctantly climbs the stairs up to their number. As she turns the key in the lock, Hiyori prepares to plug her nose shut against the stench. She braces herself and opens the door.

The first thing she notices is that Yama did, in fact, open every single window in the apartment. School papers that were once stacked neatly on the table now litter the floor in front of the kitchen cupboards. Another gust of winter whistles into the room, knocking Hiyori back with its snarling bite. She hurries to slam the windows shut against it, her teeth chattering so violently that she can hear them above the howl of the wind.

"Yama," she huffs, throwing her weight down on the last and most stubborn window shutter. "You—are— _dead_."

The shutter slams shut with a satisfactory _snap_. Hiyori dusts her hands off and breathes a sigh of relief.

"Wow, look at you go, Miss Muscles!" comes a voice from behind her.

Hiyori shrieks, whipping around with her fist cocked back. The intruder quickly retreats, holding his arms up non-threateningly.

"Whoa, Hiyori, it's just me!"

Hiyori stares. It takes her a moment to find the person's facial features beneath a patchwork of bruises, a swollen eye, and a burst lip.

 _"…Yato?"_

He tries to grin at her, but instead sucks in a pained breath as the injury on his lip gets stretched.

"Hi," he says sheepishly.

"What in the world _happened_ to you?" Hiyori asks in horror. He shrugs.

"Just a little…friendly fire," he says, limping the words around his broken lip. Hiyori's eyes drop to his left hand, cradled delicately against his body.

"Is that broken?!" she demands.

"Only a few fingers—"

"And— _friendly_ fire?" she interrupts. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Yato coughs something that sounds suspiciously like "Bishamon."

Hiyori squints. Despite the rivalry between the two, she has deep doubts that Bishamon would purposely seek to ravage Yato's face and extremities to such a degree.

The longer she looks at him skeptically, the lower Yato's eyes drop, until he's finally directing his guilty gaze at the tops of his own boots.

"I can't do much for your face," she says, doubtfully scanning his swollen, purple countenance. "But I can put on a splint on your broken fingers."

"Thanks, Hiyori," he lisps, following her to the back part of the apartment and into the small bathroom.

It's only then that Hiyori notices: not only does the place _not_ stink of rotten eggs and feet, but that it in fact smells rather nice. Lavender and lemongrass, to be exact.

She stops dead in the middle of the short hallway, and Yato bumps solidly into her.

"Did you clean my apartment?" she asks accusingly.

"It smelled like a septic tank in here," he explains.

"But what about your five yen?!"

Yato moves around her and into the tiny bathroom. He flicks on the light and leans against the sink.

"Well," he mutters, "You're gonna fix me up, aren't you?"

Hiyori swallows the lump in her throat. She would obviously have taken care of him for free.

Instead, she says: "Of cour—I mean, I'll try."

The first aid supply kit in the bathroom is meager at best, but Hiyori manages to collect a roll of bandages, some ointments, and a square patch to go over Yato's blackened eye. She picks up some tape and an old gift card of Yama's for the splint.

"Is this gonna hurt?" he whines when she resurfaces from the cupboard.

"Not as much as Bishamon-sama," Hiyori says, doing her very best to sound reassuring. Despite his formidable abilities as a war god, Yato's pain threshold is lower than that of the average toddler.

"Quit wriggling!" Hiyori growls. She chases Yato's hand as it keeps dodging away from her.

"I'm not even moving!"

She clamps her hand down on his wrist, bending the sturdy card around his finger and deftly wrapping tape around it to secure it in place.

" _Ow!_ Ow ow ow ow!"

Yato whimpers as she winds the last of the tape around his hand. His lip begins trembling.

"See!" Hiyori pats his wrist once before he snatches it back from her. "Wasn't that simple?"

"You're going to be a scary doctor."

Hiyori sighs, unable to find the heart to retort. He really does look pathetic.

"Like I said, I can't do much about _that_." She makes a broad gesture indicating the general state of his face. "But I can clean it up a bit."

He nods tersely. Hiyori pours some disinfectant onto a cotton swab.

"Now, this _will_ sting," she says gently, and Yato makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat.

Hiyori begins swabbing the disinfectant lightly onto the worst of his cuts. He twitches, and his eyes squeeze shut, but he manages to remain mostly still.

However, nothing can distract from the fact that Hiyori has to stand closer to him than she's strictly comfortable with—and, despite the alcoholic bite of the disinfectant in the air, he smells very, _very_ good.

"So…what did you say to Bishamon-sama to make her do this to you?" Hiyori asks. It's a decent attempt at casual conversation, considering that her heartbeat is trying to kick into flight mode.

"Nothing _too_ bad," he says. "But you know how she is."

Hiyori frowns. "I don't know, apparently, because she never has roughed you up this badly before without real reason."

The cotton brushes over a raw spot, and Yato's eyebrows contort in discomfort.

"Sorry," Hiyori murmurs. Her voice comes out more breathy than she would like.

Yato's eyes flutter open: one fully, the other one still swollen mostly shut. Hiyori swallows thickly.

"S-so," she wheezes. "Um. Other than that, how was the party?"

Yato shrugs. "Other than that, it was okay. I'd rather be here, though."

Hiyori fights back a blush. Then, her hand suddenly stills, hovering over a shallow cut across his cheekbone.

"Yato…didn't you say you didn't know where I lived?"

He winces visibly—this time not from pain. "Ah," he says. "About that."

Hiyori withdraws the cotton and crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm listening?"

"Don't be mad," he begs, looking down his nose at her with a pleading expression. "But I… _may_ have followed you home. Just today. It's the first time I've done it, Hiyori, I swear."

Her forehead wrinkles in confusion.

"Wait, but…I thought you were going to the party?"

Yato blinks, obviously thrown at her conspicuous lack of outrage.

"Well, _you_ weren't going to be there," he says, offering it as his only explanation.

Hiyori's mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. She shuts it a final time, finding that her face is much hotter than usual.

"If you never got into a fight with Bishamon-sama," she asks slowly, "then how did you get so badly hurt?"

Yato looks off to the side, the undamaged corner of his mouth tipping upward in a rueful smile.

"Well, there was…kind of…an ayakashi in here. A pretty nasty one." He grimaces. "I think your roommate lured it in with her, um, cooking."

Hiyori's stomach lurches. If Yato hadn't come here, she'd probably be facing it alone.

"And where was Yukine?!" she asks.

"I told him I would be fine, and to enjoy the party," Yato says, scratching the back of his neck. "He knew I was just checking in on you, so there shouldn't have been anything for him to worry about."

"Yato—!" Hiyori chokes, horrified. "You fought an ayakashi without a shinki?!"

He laughs uncomfortably.

"Well, luckily, this one had a real dislike for cleaning spray."

Hiyori imagines Yato aiming a spray bottle at an enormous ayakashi like a misbehaving cat, and she is truly conflicted whether to laugh or cry.

"Yato," she says softly. "You could have…"

She just trails off, both arms dangling limply by her sides.

Another beat passes before she lifts the cotton swab again to continue cleaning his cuts. She has to tiptoe to reach the one at the top of his forehead, and her chest brushes lightly against his.

Yato clears his throat. Hiyori feels his eyes on her, and forces herself to focus on the task.

"It was pretty stupid of me, I guess," he murmurs.

Hiyori keeps the cotton against his forehead and reaches behind her with one arm for the bandages. Yato leans forward to grab them from the countertop. He presses them into her hand, and finally, finally catches her eyes.

 _He's right there._

Heat spills all the way down Hiyori's spine and pools, quivering, in her stomach.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Yato's throat bobs as he swallows. Every inch of Hiyori's skin sears with both ice and fire.

 _Problem caused._

"I—" he begins, roughly. He cuts himself off, then makes a low, wanting noise in the back of his throat.

He kisses her. Hiyori drops the bandages.

Yato pulls her toward him, one arm wrapped gently around her waist. Her eyes flutter closed at the warmth of him, the euphoric scent washing through her, turning her knees to butter. The cotton swab she holds to his forehead slips through her loose grip, and instead her fingers comb through his hair to pull him close.

He touches her like she's made of hollow glass—like _she's_ the injured one—but his hands tremble on her skin like he's holding back an entire ocean. An anticipatory voice in the back of her thoughts whispers, _maybe he is._

Yato breaks the kiss. Hiyori lets a soft noise of distress escape her before she realizes it's only because his lip has started bleeding again.

"Oh," she breathes. "Sorry."

Then, she starts laughing.

Still holding his lip, Yato looks at her in surprise. Then, he begins laughing too—because there's really nothing else to do.

"I guess I mostly came here to do that," he admits through his chuckles. Hiyori puts both her hands over her scarlet face.

"I guess," she mumbles. "I'm glad you did."


End file.
